My first job earning a paycheck introduced me to a much wider variety of people than I had experienced before including, unfortunately, The Poop Fiend. I was 14 years old and was hired to help out after school and on weekends at a Vickers gas station on a main road just a few blocks from my home, which lasted about six months. Two other guys worked at the station; Charlie, an older man with a great sense of humor who liked to recite dirty poetry, and Mike, a young guy who was pretty serious and liked to tell me stories, usually involving his sex life. My job included all the menial tasks such as sweeping the station and parking lot, stocking the coolers, cleaning the bathroom, and so on. If it got real busy Charlie or Mike would call me back behind the counter to help operate the pumps and wait on customers. I enjoyed the job and really liked getting a paycheck, until that fateful day when I went into the mens room to give it a quick clean. What was supposed to go into the toilet was smeared everywhere; on the walls, the toilet seat and handle, the sink and handles and the mirror. Mike was furious, but since it was “my department” I alone had to clean it up. Thinking that was the worst that could ever happen to me on the job I shook it off, until it happened again, and again. Mike was obsessed with catching this poop fiend, for which I was glad, but it was taking longer than I had hoped. Somehow Mike had gotten the idea that it was a boy who lived in the neighborhood. We could see his house on the hill from the gas station, and Mike kept an eye on it until one day he spotted the kid walking down the hill towards the station. When the kid entered the mens room Mike grabbed a full size ax I had never noticed before and headed to that side of the station, telling me to stay inside. The next thing I saw was the kid running and screaming through the parking lot with Mike close behind, holding the ax over his head. In his terror the kid tripped and fell, rolling onto his back as the ax came down next to his head, embedding in the hot asphalt. The fiend wet his pants before getting up crying and running for home. We never heard from him, his parents or the police, or saw his handiwork again. Case solved!